


On the Breath of a Hurricane

by ladyofstardvst



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Blood and Injury, Hostage Situations, Light Angst, Minor Violence, Rescue Missions, Swearing, like super briefly - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-17
Updated: 2020-07-17
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:34:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25336207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyofstardvst/pseuds/ladyofstardvst
Summary: One of those 'im shoving down how i feel for you but now you're missing and injured and im gonna commit a felony' things in which Peter is in danger of losing someone he might actually care for. Post psychotic Peter Hale: he's Working On That.
Relationships: Peter Hale/Reader
Comments: 1
Kudos: 40





	On the Breath of a Hurricane

**Author's Note:**

> i dont go here but i rewatched teen wolf again and finally wrote the shameless Peter Thing i've wanted to do for years. jumping from vigilantes to werewolves, are we really surprised anymore?

It was dark when you woke.

A void swallowed you whole. Cold, clammy air bit into your skin, your bones, your soul. The air was damp with must and mold. Wherever you were, this place hadn’t felt the kiss of sunlight in some time.

Thick, opaque fog lingered around your thoughts, slowed your movements when you tried to stand. Wrists bound, feet bound. Ropes too tight, cutting off circulation. Skin slick with fear, sweat, and retaliation. Eyes still unseeing, but no gag. You could spit, you could scream. You could hiss at the blood trickling down your fingertips, the drip drip _drip_ of it’s collision with the cement under your feet.

Dripping. You were in a chair. Not wooden, which could be potentially problematic.

 _Fuck_.

Then a roar ripped through the air in front of you, around you, above you. A flinch tore through your body, then a wince. A pain in your shoulder was suddenly blinding. Seething. Consuming. Stars appeared in the darkness to accompany the unmistakable snarl of a werewolf.

Hopefully, your friends. Or, at the very least, someone to help you bust your way far, far away from here.

Footsteps sounded above you – heavy, swift and unyielding. Multiple crashes followed suit – like whoever it was left a trail in their wake. Breadcrumbs. A map for the others to follow. A warning? Maybe all of the above.

You screamed, held yourself still to keep the bleeding to a minimum, to keep the pain from pulling you back into the comfort of it’s sheltered embrace. Something had to be done on your part; waiting idly by to be saved was never your specialty, but your voice was all you had this time.

It didn’t echo. The cry for help was swallowed by the darkness, just like you. That meant you were in a room – small, enclosed. Likely with a door separating you and the action coming closer and closer with each labored breath.

That mattered little, in the world of werewolves and heightened senses. Soft, far away light suddenly flooded your holding cell. Instinctively, you cringed away and squeezed your eyes shut until the quiet settled over you, tension thick, air chilled enough to rival the ungodly stare of Medusa herself.

A silhouette – probably familiar – made your heart flutter violent and quick. Adrenaline began to stir awake within you.

A voice, unmistakable and urgent cut through the darkness. Your name was the only thing to break the spell.

Your relationship with Peter Hale wasn’t much of one. He was insufferable, and you refused to spoon-feed his narcissistic tendencies. He held a skewed morality, dramatic and burning in his hands. You tried to contain flames from scalding innocent lives, put out the little bonfires when they weren’t welcome. Rarely, did he think twice about his bloodstained hands. You tried to avoid the inevitable. The two of you didn’t quite get along, but Peter Hale never played well with others. He provoked everyone, only helped the pack when it was personal for him.

You were everything he wasn’t, and that was why he had come for you. Changing him was something you never tried; coexisting as best you could was the path you had chosen. He recognized the potential you saw in him where he tried to drown it. Tried to keep it from seeing anyone’s eyes but your own. He cringed when you tried to draw it forth on occasions. You never pushed, never pulled. Simply let it be what it was, left it to break out on it’s own.

That time was now, it seemed. He couldn’t crush it into oblivion this time. The worry. The _fear_. The urge to save, instead of destroy – even only if it _was_ personal for him. He didn’t know _where the fuck_ any of this had come from. Didn’t know how to handle it, how to shape it back into nothing.

“I can’t move,” you said to the darkness. “And I think I’ve been shot.”

“Yeah,” he said. “Figured that out for myself, thanks.” The restraints fell in heaps to the ground.

A hiss through your teeth as fresh air stung the rope burns on your wrists, the places where your skin separated into open wounds. A sharp groan as your arms fell to your sides, jerked at your apparent bullet wound.

“Can you stand?” he knelt before you, silhouette caught back in the light as your eyes adjusted. A gentle hand tilted your chin, checked for more injuries.

Things were still disjointed in your head when you tried. The darkness and the light swayed as you lifted a foot, clutched at Peter’s waiting arm when you pitched sideways.

“So that’s a no.”

“You’re not carrying me out of here.”

Harsh yelling sounded from upstairs. An arm slid around your waist.

A gunshot, loud in the silence that followed.

Another.

Then another.

It was jarring, the regroup after a fight. Adrenaline began to flood your veins again – the pain became a distant memory. Your head cleared _just enough_ to get a sharper grip on reality. Your fingers that held you steady against Peter let go, trailed down his arm to test your balance – or lacktherof.

Peter’s arm around your waist tightened.

Were you truly so out of it, or did his breath just catch?

“I don’t think you have much of a choice, sweetheart.”

Gone was the arrogance, the playful armor he wore. It was unsettling, when he was serious.

Pain lanced up your arms, down your ankles when he lifted you, and your wrists brushed the fabric of his shirt around his neck. A grunt of pain made it past your lips when your shoulder pressed tight against his. You didn’t miss it this time, how he cringed at your pain. How he was the one causing it.

This was not the time for your feelings to shine in the dark, you reminded yourself. Guilt twinged through your chest anyway, how you seemed to make him _feel –_ when otherwise he didn’t.

The flash of a bullet leaving the barrel, the glint off a blade, eyes that glowed replaced the lurking darkness. A strangled yell, the _whoosh_ of an arrow stripped away the muffled silence within each moment, each step forward. The tang of blood hung in the air, but maybe that was just you, bleeding all over Peter Hale.

A knife flew your way, materializing out of thin air. Peter sidestepped with grace. A growl tore through his throat; loud when your ear was right next to the source. It was the main thing anchoring you to consciousness now – _sound_.

_Peter – no! Get them out of here._ The distant voice of an alpha –  _your_ alpha, rang above the cacophony of battle.

“This is a good time to listen to Scott, actually,” your voice was weaker than it had been when he first found you. It was harder to speak. Your grip on him loosened. The blood loss from your shoulder threatened to pull you away from yourself. Away from your friends. Away from Peter.

The fight dulled now that the darkness was coming back for you. Everything slowly fell away, and all you had was Peter Hale.

He huffed, irritated and pushed down his pride. “Don’t worry,” he said, bright blue eyes dimmed back to brown. “I won’t let you die.”

You would have laughed, if the weight of the world was not resting so heavy on your chest, crushing your heart. Atlas, maybe, in another life.

Peter glanced down when there was no reply. No quip, no laugh. Just an eerie, unsettling silence. Only the ghost of a smile and heavy eyes were there to answer him. He moved faster, tempered his want to stay and fight, to rip apart whoever did this to you – brick by bloody brick.

He couldn’t lose you. He _wouldn’t_.

**Author's Note:**

> taking requests on tumblr via new writing blog: @monstrouslydivine


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